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I. They let me go at night, minus my timepiece, lighter, personal effects. The air is always shaking the same jars of safety pins: cicadas. Song is my recidivism: always I'm abandoning the road to stand (unwatched, unseconded) in someone's field. The stars (that are not mine) tick fitfully, they always have appointments. Punctual, six-sharp, they are David's; they have lodged in his death tent, have stuck in his mud sleep. Bad luck leaves me a loan: no company, no katy- did or promissory note or night can last. The air loses its nerve, the old saw its eyeteeth and I my words—my alwaysing and my. II. In hush the repossessors reach the edges of the field. They pass for shadows, sheep of ambush, animals of permanence. They turn a black beyond returning and they haunt the sleepless. I don't count, who cannot earn my keep.

For V.S. When it’s Christmas we’re all of us magi. At the grocers’ all slipping and pushing. Where a tin of halvah, coffee-flavored, is the cause of a human assault-wave by a crowd heavy-laden with parcels: each one his own king, his own camel. Nylon bags, carrier bags, paper cones, caps and neckties all twisted up sideways. Reek of vodka and resin and cod, orange mandarins, cinnamon, apples. Floods of faces, no sign of a pathway toward Bethlehem, shut off by blizzard. And the bearers of moderate gifts leap on buses and jam all the doorways, disappear into courtyards that gape, though they know that there’s nothing inside there: not a beast, not a crib, nor yet her, round whose head gleams a nimbus of gold. Emptiness. But the mere thought of that brings forth lights as if out of nowhere. Herod reigns but the stronger he is, the more sure, the more certain the wonder. In the constancy of this relation is the basic mechanics of Christmas. That’s what they celebrate everywhere, for its coming push tables together. No demand for a star for a while, but a sort of good will touched with grace can be seen in all men from afar, and the shepherds have kindled their fires. Snow is falling: not smoking but sounding chimney pots on the roof, every face like a stain. Herod drinks. Every wife hides her child. He who comes is a mystery: features are not known beforehand, men’s hearts may not be quick to distinguish the stranger. But when drafts through the doorway disperse the thick mist of the hours of darkness and a shape in a shawl stands revealed, both a newborn and Spirit that’s Holy in your self you discover; you stare skyward, and it’s right there: a star.

for Yu Luoke Perhaps the final hour is come I have left no testament Only a pen, for my mother I am no hero In an age without heroes I just want to be a man The still horizon Divides the ranks of the living and the dead I can only choose the sky I will not kneel on the ground Allowing the executioners to look tall The better to obstruct the wind of freedom From star-like bullet holes shall flow A blood-red dawn

Walk through the edges, circumvent the center. (Circle the square, so to speak). Having parted ways with the crossroad, take each path offered, and unite into a thousand thousand fragments. Stutter in the tongues of men and angels. Spit out the honorific truth: rave stark as a mad woman. Destitute, discover the ancestral home and sit down to fast sumptuously at the high table. Comforted, stare into the mirror that divided all these years, the mirror that melts in the mouth. Now, speak clearly.

Question: Can you tell us about what he is wearing? Well, the hooves represent the deer’s hooves, the red scarf represents the flowers from which he ate, the shawl is for skin. The cocoons make the sound of the deer walking on leaves and grass. Listen. Question: What is that he is beating on? It’s a gourd drum. The drum represents the heartbeat of the deer. Listen. When the drum beats, it brings the deer to life. We believe the water the drum sits in is holy. It is life. Go ahead, touch it. Bless yourself with it. It is holy. You are safe now. Question: How does the boy become a dancer? He just knows. His mother said he had dreams when he was just a little boy. You know how that happens. He just had it in him. Then he started working with older men who taught him how to dance. He has made many sacrifices for his dancing even for just a young boy. The people concur, “Yes, you can see it in his face.” Question: What do they do with the money we throw them? Oh, they just split it among the singers and dancer. They will probably take the boy to McDonald’s for a burger and fries. The men will probably have a cold one. It’s hot today, you know.

I am a feather on the bright sky I am the blue horse that runs in the plain I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the water I am the shadow that follows a child I am the evening light, the lustre of meadows I am an eagle playing with the wind I am a cluster of bright beads I am the farthest star I am the cold of dawn I am the roaring of the rain I am the glitter on the crust of the snow I am the long track of the moon in a lake I am a flame of four colors I am a deer standing away in the dusk I am a field of sumac and the pomme blanche I am an angle of geese in the winter sky I am the hunger of a young wolf I am the whole dream of these things You see, I am alive, I am alive I stand in good relation to the earth I stand in good relation to the gods I stand in good relation to all that is beautiful I stand in good relation to the daughter of Tsen-tainte You see, I am alive, I am alive

She lived there for years in a small space in a high rise that saw her winter years dawn. When the past became larger than her present, she would call and thank us for cards we gave her when we were small; for Christmas, Mother's Day, her birthday, our devotion scrawled amidst depictions of crooked hearts and lopsided lilies. She would write out new ones, and we found them everywhere—unsent; in perfect cursive she wished us joy, chains of x's and o's circling her signature. And when her time alone was over, the space emptied of all but sunshine, dust, and a cross nailed above her door, those cards held for us a bitter peace; they had finally been delivered.

As I stood upon London Bridge and viewed the mighty throng Of thousands of people in cabs and ’busses rapidly whirling along, All furiously driving to and fro, Up one street and down another as quick as they could go: Then I was struck with the discordant sound of human voices there, Which seemed to me like wild geese cackling in the air: And the river Thames is a most beautiful sight, To see the steamers sailing upon it by day and by night. And the Tower of London is most gloomy to behold, And the crown of England lies there, begemmed with precious stones and gold; King Henry the Sixth was murdered there by the Duke of Glo’ster, And when he killed him with his sword he called him an impostor. St. Paul’s Cathedral is the finest building that ever I did see, There’s no building can surpass it in the city of Dundee, Because it’s magnificent to behold, With its beautiful dome and spire glottering like gold. And as for Nelson’s Monument that stands in Trafalgar Square, It is a most stately monument I most solemnly declare, And towering defiantly very high, Which arrests strangers’ attention while passing by. Then there’s two beautiful water-fountains spouting up very high, Where the weary traveller can drink when he feels dry; And at the foot of the monument there’s three bronze lions in grand array, Enough to make the stranger’s heart throb with dismay. Then there’s Mr Spurgeon, a great preacher, which no one dare gainsay, I went to hear him preach on the Sabbath-day, And he made my heart feel light and gay, When I heard him preach and pray. And the Tabernacle was crowded from ceiling to floor, And many were standing outside the door; He is an eloquent preacher I honestly declare, And I was struck with admiration as on him I did stare. Then there’s Petticoat Lane I venture to say, It’s a wonderful place on the Sabbath-day; There wearing-apparel can be bought to suit the young or old, For the ready cash, silver, coppers, or gold. Oh! mighty city of London! you are wonderful to see, And thy beauties no doubt fill the tourist’s heart with glee; But during my short stay, and while wandering there, Mr Spurgeon was the only man I heard speaking proper English I do declare.

I pour a coating of salt on the table and make a circle in it with my finger. This is the cycle of life I say to no one. This is the wheel of fortune, the Arctic Circle. This is the ring of Kerry and the white rose of Tralee I say to the ghosts of my family, the dead fathers, the aunt who drowned, my unborn brothers and sisters, my unborn children. This is the sun with its glittering spokes and the bitter moon. This is the absolute circle of geometry I say to the crack in the wall, to the birds who cross the window. This is the wheel I just invented to roll through the rest of my life I say touching my finger to my tongue.

The chicken I bought last night, Frozen, Returned to life, Laid the biggest egg in the world, And was awarded the Nobel Prize. The phenomenal egg Was passed from hand to hand, In a few weeks had gone all round the earth, And round the sun In 365 days. The hen received who knows how much hard currency, Assessed in buckets of grain Which she couldn’t manage to eat Because she was invited everywhere, Gave lectures, granted interviews, Was photographed. Very often reporters insisted That I too should pose Beside her. And so, having served art Throughout my life, All of a sudden I’ve attained to fame As a poultry breeder.